The frontier fortress of Castrum Inferior looks like shit. Stone walls, rusted gates, and the stench of death. This is where the Empire sends its trash.
"Slave cohort, forward!"
That's us. Ten slaves too valuable to kill, too problematic to keep. Five men, five women. The women are here for real crimes. The men? We existed wrong.
Training Mistress Valeria grins at us. Level 45. Arms like tree trunks, teeth filed to points.
"Strip."
The women obey immediately. When I don't move fast enough, her mana-enhanced slap sends me sprawling. My cheek burns—pain amplification spell.
"I said strip, princeling."
This time I obey. Valeria whistles.
"No wonder the Empress kept you decorative so long. Look at this—perfect breeding stock." Her hand traces my spine. I don't shudder. Can't show weakness. "Too bad you forgot your place. Beauty's worthless without obedience."
"Leave him alone."
Everyone turns. A female slave steps forward—tall, bronze skin, arena scars. The System shows: [Cassia, Level 25, Former Gladiator].
Valeria backhands her. Cassia barely flinches.
"Interesting. The arena rat defends the princeling." She addresses all of us. "First lesson: you're not people. You're tools. Maybe weapons if you survive. The Empire needs bodies for the eastern front. You ten won the lottery."
A notification appears: [Quest Assigned: Survive Basic Training]
[Duration: 7 Days]
[Reward: Combat Class Unlock]
[Penalty for Failure: Death]
Great. As if I needed the System to tell me that.
"Barracks are there. One hour to settle. Training starts after." Valeria's eyes find mine again. "Pretty boys who think their faces will save them learn otherwise. Fast."
The barracks are ten bunks in a room for four. Two rows facing each other. Women take left, men take right.
"You're Marcus." Cassia drops onto the bunk across from mine. "I watched you once at court. You wore silk worth more than my village."
"That was someone else."
She laughs. "No, it wasn't. You're still the fool who told the Empress to stop killing senators." She leans forward. "Your face is going to cause problems. Every female officer will want to break you or bed you. Sometimes both."
"Bed me?"
"Virgin males are worth triple on the marriage market. They won't damage that value, but they'll do everything else."
Right. Marcus's memories surface—male purity as property value. Kevin keeps forgetting this world's rules.
"I'm Alexios," a pretty boy interrupts. Sixteen, temple-raised features. "Former temple attendant. Got caught stealing offerings."
The others introduce themselves:
Women:
Cassia: Level 25, gladiator, killed her arena mistress Drusilla: Level 12, army deserter Livia Minor: Level 11, street thief (terrible name choice) Paulina: Level 9, smuggler Tertia: Level 10, murdered her husband
Men:
Alexios: Level 11, temple thief Gaius: Level 10, runaway pleasure slave Quintus: Level 8, document forger Brutus: Level 12, muscled, attacked his mistress
"Any bets on who dies first?" Gaius asks. His pleasure slave training shows—that melodic voice, calculated grace.
"That's not funny," Quintus protests.
"It's realistic." Brutus's voice is flat. "Half of us won't survive the week."
"They're always serious about the eastern front," Drusilla mutters. "Lost three cohorts there last month. Barbarians are getting bolder."
I think about my vision—ten years until those barbarians burn everything. But I keep quiet.
A parchment on the wall shows the training schedule. Cassia checks it. "Weapons training in thirty minutes. They'll beat us bloody, then make us fight each other."
"You've done this before?"
"Arena was worse. At least here they want us functional." She studies me. "Can you fight?"
"No."
"Then stay close. I'll teach you what I can."
"Why?"
She's quiet, then speaks low. "I was a bodyguard before the arena. Protected merchant daughters. When I refused my mistress's... other services, she sold me to the games. Three years fighting, then I won my freedom match. The arena mistress tried to keep me anyway—said I was too profitable. So I killed her."
She looks at me. "You spoke for mercy in a world that has none. That's either stupid or brave. Either way, I've served worse causes."
"I'm not—"
"You stood before the Empress and told her to stop killing. For a man, that's practically sainthood." She stands. "Besides, you interest me. A prince who throws everything away for conscience? There's more to you than silk robes."
If only she knew it was Kevin's modern sensibilities, not Marcus's conscience. But I just nod.
"Formation!" Valeria's voice cracks outside.
As we file out, Livia Minor whispers to me. "The gladiator's right to protect you. But protection always has a price here."
Before I can respond, we're in the courtyard. Female legionnaires watch from the walls, already taking bets on our deaths.
"Welcome to training," Valeria announces. "By sunset, at least two of you will be dead. Maybe more if you're especially pathetic." Her eyes find mine. "I give the princeling three days, maximum."
The soldiers laugh, exchanging coins.
I catch Cassia's eye. She nods—stay close, stay quiet, survive.
Seven days to unlock a combat class. Seven days to prove I'm more than decorative.
In ten years, this empire burns. But first, I have to survive the week.
The sun climbs higher. Training begins.